Part of the Crew, Part of the Ship
by misaoshiru
Summary: The tragic story of one of the first members of Davy Jones's crew. "Maybe, like Judas Iscariot, it was always his destiny to be the betrayer." Oneshot. Dark.


Disclaimer: I don't own PotC. It's owned by Disney and some other people. I am not one of those people, nor am I in any way affiliated with them or Disney. Used without permission and not for profit, etc.

**Part of the Crew, Part of the Ship**  
_ by misaoshiru_

_There was once a poor girl with gorgeous eyes and a foolish man who was to be her bridegroom._

Maybe, like Judas Iscariot, it was always his destiny to be the betrayer. But, he rationalized as he fingered the worn fabric inside his empty pockets, a man without money or education had little room to work his way up in the world, so he had little other choice. While the pirate crew led their savage attack on his village, he snuck onboard their ship and hid himself as best he could. No one noticed him as they boarded, loading the ship with their spoils and setting off once more, as suddenly as they had come.

At sea, he intended to slowly begin the process of ingratiating himself into their crew. It would be only a matter of time before he was one of their own, and they would look on him as a brother, and he would receive his share of the loot and slip away, back to his home and his girl. But his fantasies of grandeur were interrupted the day the pirates attacked the wrong ship.

Even now, he remembers (faintly) that day – how he was dragged, bodily, up onto the blood-slicked deck, surrounded by the fetid stench of corpses already beginning to rot under the midday July sun, and brought before the enemy captain. To him, he was a giant of a man – not particularly tall but broad-shouldered and intimidating enough to seem larger than he was. And he was a monster, almost resembling a sea creature more than a man. His captor pulled him toward the captain and spoke in a deep, rough voice with a heavy accent that he didn't recognize, saying, "What'll we do with this'n, sir?"

"I don't really care. Throw him overboard if you want."

The pirate grinned a sinister, grimy, toothless grin down at him, and he squirmed. "W-wait, please, I don't have any money, but..."

"I've no interest in money, and you're wasting my time, _boy_."

"Please, I...I'll do anything, just please don't kill me! I'll work for you, be your slave, _anything._"

The captain stared down at him, eyebrows lifted, looking him over. "Will you serve one hundred years before the mast?"

"...yes."

"Then I accept your terms, boy." He felt his hand grasped by a hand much larger than his own, and it took him quite a while to scrub off the lingering slimy feeling of his grasp.

* * *

The next fifteen years crawled by at a tortuously slow pace. He had intended to make his escape long before, but the ship hardly ever made port. Moreover, anyone who did try to escape (and many did; he was far from the only crew member with such mutinous thoughts) was promptly caught and beaten so severely that he grew to dread trying more and more with every day

In addition, he felt like he was slowly losing his purpose. In the day-to-day tedium of this back-breaking labor (who would have thought something so painful could be so boring), his wits – never the fastest – were slowly growing numb. And he felt...something. Bigger than himself. Calling to him. It was...he was...

His own identity was slowly fading away, etched into the decks and masts of the _Flying Dutchman_ that he diligently polished day after day after day. He was...part of the ship. Part of the crew.

Escaping...why had he ever wanted to escape? This was where he belonged, wasn't it? That family he'd wanted? But what about...there was something...someone...why couldn't he remember?

It didn't matter. This was his identity now. This _is_ his identity now.

* * *

They've attacked another ship. He doesn't know why, doesn't matter. Who are these people? Why do they deserve being attacked? Doesn't matter. It's his duty. _Follow the captain._

Part of the crew. Part of the ship.

There's a woman there in front of him, neither young nor old. She looks vaguely familiar to him – doesn't matter. What is her name? Who is she? Why does she look at him like that, with fear and hatred in her eyes? And why does it vaguely hurt for her to do so?

Doesn't matter. Part of the crew. Part of the ship.

In the end, he dimly notes that his beloved's eyes are, years later, just as beautiful in death. And that, too, fades away behind his purpose.

_Part of the crew._

_Part of the ship._

_Forever and always._


End file.
